Gwen's story

Gwen's story began on a mid-May day when she was 22. She'd stopped by her parents’ house on her way home from work to pick up her daughter, Al-Lexis, who was about 18 months old. Gwen’s parents watched their granddaughter during the day when Gwen was working. While she was at her folks’ house, her father asked her to leave Lexis (as her daughter was called) and pick her up later. Her father, a quiet, stoic man, had never done that before, but after he insisted two more times that the baby should stay, Gwen consented, thinking that maybe he just wanted to spend a little more time with Lexis and this was his way of asking.

With the sun heading into the western sky, the temperature was dropping quickly. Gwen hadn’t worn a coat that day, so she borrowed a neighbor’s jacket to wear for the bus ride home. The men’s jacket, made of heavy wool, was too big for Gwen’s small frame, but she took it and left, leaving her daughter behind. The ride home seemed long without her daughter sitting next to her, chattering away, although the only intelligible words she knew then were “mama” and “dada.” Later Gwen would thank God Lexis hadn’t been with her.

When Gwen arrived home, she could smell the gas as she was walking up the driveway. There’s a gas leak, she thought. Her husband, Al, was probably upstairs sleeping. After working all day, he’d often come home and take a nap. Once he was asleep, he wasn’t easy to wake up and if he’d been sleeping in a houseful of leaking gas, it would be even harder to rouse him. She yanked open the side door and inhaled against her will – the stench! The air was so thick with gas, a sudden idea could have ignited it.

Knowing that she had to get to him right away, she sprang up the stairs and headed for the bedroom. “Al! Get up!” she cried. The moment he opened his eyes, Gwen started for the door. But Al was still foggy from sleep and didn’t notice the smell of gas in the house, the smell that Gwen was gagging on. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a cigarette. Putting it to his lips, he struck the lighter, and his right arm went up in flames. In less than an instant, the bedroom was engulfed in a blue ball. Al lost sight of Gwen, just as he was knocked to the floor.

“Every time I tried to get up, it was like someone was holding me there,” he says.
The flames were as nimble as a gymnast, leaping and flipping from wall to wall. The air was on fire.

Gwen managed to make it to the upstairs hallway, which was a blue flame. All she could think about was something she’d learned in junior high school chemistry class: A blue flame is the hottest point on a Bunsen burner. “It’s funny what you remember,” she says. At the top of the stairs, she, too, was knocked to the floor. She just needed to get down the stairs and through the front door.

Gwen scrambled to get up, but three more times she was knocked back to the floor. Finally, she gave up. Oh my God, I’m going to die, she thought. And then her daughter’s face flashed in front of her, and she cried, “God, I can’t go!” Then, as though she were being lifted, she was able to stand and get down the stairs. She grabbed the door handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t open. She pushed harder. Nothing. Angrily, she kicked the door with all her strength, but it still didn’t budge. She stood quietly and prayed, “God, please help me.” And then she remembered that the door pulled open. She turned the handle and stumbled out.

The crowd that had gathered around the burning house watched in horror as a woman, who was still smoking from being on fire, staggered down the driveway.